Abandon: A Rewrite
by AlyssaRuin
Summary: Pierce Oliviera knows what happens after you die. Her death lead her into the arms of death itself, and yet she escaped him. Haunted by her past, Pierce must gather the courage to protect her friends, family, and her own heart from the demons that ruled the Underworld from which she fled. Wherever she goes, trouble seems to follow. But so does he.
1. Note

Meg Cabot's 'Abandon' was a good story with shit writing. So, I've decided to have a go at doing a shitty rewrite. It came out just a tad darker than the book - mental illness and trauma are given slightly more emphasis, the actions of certain characters are not so easily forgotten or forgiven, and certain relationships don't just suddenly fall into place. But dark, sexy - respectful and consensual - romance is the end-goal here, as it should be.

I'm just here to have a good time and hopefully whoever reads this will too.

PS, very little editing was done and my use of punctuation is less than impressive.

Enjoy!


	2. Chapter 1

_Did you see a light?_

I'd heard the question so many times that it no longer irked me. I understood, that curiousity – the meaning of life, what happens after we die… People have been asking these questions since humans could grasp the concept of life and death. These questions birthed religions, started wars, brought people together, tore nations apart. No one could know the answer. Well, maybe not no one.

"Did you see a light?"

I blinked at my cousin, heart sinking just a little that after not having seen one another all these years, that was the first thing he said to me. I wasn't surprised, but that didn't stop the feeling of disappointment. But no sooner were the words out of his mouth than a large hand clipped him over the back of the head,

"Alex," my uncle Chris growled, scowling at his son.

"Ow!" Alex cried, flinching away and holding his head, more surprised than wounded. "What was that for?"

"Don't be rude."

Alex frowned, looking between his dad and myself, honestly bewildered. "What? It was just a question."

Standing back awkwardly as father and son had their squabble, I sipped at my drink and looked around again for my mother amongst the crowd. A dozen or so strangers stood in my house, drinking and laughing merrily beneath the warm lights, spilling out of the French doors and onto the deck overlooking the garden and the pool, where water spilled over rocks and aquatic plants and formed a waterfall that fell into the glowing blue pool where a flotilla of citronella candles floated, flames flickering as they bobbed upon the gentle waters. My stomach clenched at the sight of it and I turned away.

Fairy-lights were strung throughout the dark red mahogany pergola, winding through the thick green leaves with delicate white flowers creating a cover overhead. The night-blooming jasmine filled the house and garden with its sweet perfume, mixing with the warm, thick air – a tell-tale sign of an oncoming storm. The warm lights amongst the leaves were shining almost as brilliantly as the stars overhead – bright and twinkling against the perfect dark of the night sky. It had been a long time since I had seen this many stars – and never had I seen the Milky Way stretching from one end of the horizon to the other. Way out here, on this small island of Isla Heusos just off the coast of South Florida, there were no big cities to wash out the night; only hurricanes which washed away everything else.

I wished I had stayed out there a little longer, milling at the edge of the crowd, cursing my mother for abandoning me at this party she had thrown to welcome me, inviting everyone she knew from 'the old days', meaning family and friends she had left behind when she moved away to go to college, and get married and have a kid. She was excited about this party; excited about moving back to the place where she was born to research her beloved bird, the roseate spoonbill, her life's work, with her daughter in tow. I couldn't say I felt the same, but I had been assured by her time and time again how good this would be for us, for me – for a new start.

"But it's been like two years, hasn't it?" Alex was saying, still looking bewildered but now rolling his eyes. "No way she's still touchy about it – right, Pierce?" He looked over at me expectantly.

"Uh, right," I lied, with an insincere smile that disappeared as soon as it came. Another sip of my drink, I averted my eyes and wished myself far away.

"Told you," Alex grinned triumphantly at his still scowling father. "So, what about it – did you see the light at the end of the tunnel?"

Turning to look at him, I saw the excited curiousity in his face, and Uncle Chris' reluctant interest in my answer, both their eyes on me, listening intently. I gave a little shrug, not really knowing what to say.

"Uh, not exactly…" I shifted uncomfortably, wanting this topic to drop so that I could actually catch up with my cousin and uncle whom I hadn't seen in years.

"Did you see the Pearly Gates?" Alex asked.

"I didn't, no," I told him, rubbing the back of my neck. "But some people say they did. Or they say they saw a path to another land. I've heard people say they saw aliens," I shrugged.

They laughed. I gave another strained smile.

"Cool," Alex grinned. "So, what do you think you saw?"

"Nothing," I told him. "Well, I did see a light. But it was just a hallucination caused by my brain's neurons firing all at once – one final hurrah before they go out forever."

"But they didn't go out," Uncle Chris said, amusement fading as he finally noticed how tense I had become. I avoided his gaze and shrugged again.

"You did die, though," Alex said. "They had to bring you back." Uncle Chris' nostrils flared.

My chest felt tight beneath my dress, and the knot in my throat was hard to swallow. Feeling my face pale and drawn, shoulders starting to ache from the tension, I looked at him with a strained smile and hard eyes.

"Yeah, I did."

And I had told the truth – I did see a light, just for a moment. But after that… well, it was hard to explain, and I'd learned the hard way that it was much better for everyone if I didn't try to. In the distance, the growl of thunder stretched over the dark seas. No one else seemed to notice; the jovial conversation and the music pumping from speakers designed to look like rocks filled the air. But I heard it – there was a storm out to sea, and it was heading our way.

"Alright, stop pestering her, boy," Uncle Chris told Alex, as he adjusted his Isla Huesos Bait and Tackle baseball cap.

"Excuse me, ma'am, may I refill your glass?" I turned to the pleasant-looking older woman who smiled professionally toward us, bow-tie at her neck, pristine white cloth hanging from her arm, and a champagne bottle held firmly in her grasp. Half a dozen more caterers moved smoothly through the crowd, serving platters of cocktail shrimp, chicken skewers and conch fritters.

"Yes, please," I answered the caterer, despite not caring for the taste. The yellow-tinted alcohol bubbled into my flute. "Thank you." She nodded in acknowledgement and turned to Uncle Chris, raising the bottle to fill his as well.

"Mountain Dew!" he cried, startling us all as he jerked his glass out of the way, letting the champagne pour out onto the smooth varnished decking. Flushing sheepishly, Uncle Chris stammered, "Sorry, it's Mountain Dew," he said, raising his glass, "I don't drink."

"I'm so sorry, sir," the woman replied as we all stared in dismay at the puddle at our feet, slowly moving away to gather just inside the French doors.

"Sorry about the floor," Uncle Chris told me, regretfully.

"It's fine," I shrugged. "It's just a floor. Just don't tell Mum it was you that spilled it."

"She probably won't be so forgiving," he laughed, but looked a little worried at the thought of facing his older sister's wrath.

Uncle Chris' laughter faded as a comfortable, quiet moment arose in the conversation. I watched as he drank his Mountain Dew, his eyes darkening, a small furrow appearing between his brows. He smacked his lips and suddenly met my eyes; I saw my mother in his face, and yet, my mother's eyes, even during her divorce proceedings with my dad, had never seemed so sad. Uncle Chris had the saddest eyes of anyone I had ever known. _Except for him. _I quashed the intrusive thought the moment it came, cursing its clarity. I gave Uncle Chris a small, honest smile, and saw his eyes brighten, only slightly.

Uncle Chris had spent over a decade locked-up in a state penitentiary. He had missed his chance to spoil his already spoiled niece. He had missed out on watching his son grow into a man. Time had passed, the world had kept on turning, and had left him behind – it must be so hard standing here surrounded by people, not being watched, not being told what to do, or wear, or eat, or when to sleep. To be so aware of and so cowed by freedom. I couldn't imagine what he was going through. How could he even begin to catch up? I suppose that was what his family were for; to support him, to teach him, to show him how to use his freedom for good.

Of course, for now he was still trying to get back on his feet – he lived with my grandmother, who had raised Alex after his mum abandoned him and his father was incarcerated. Other than job searching, Uncle Chris seemed to spend all his time watching the Weather Channel and drinking Mountain Dew. But now that my mum was back, I was sure that she would be determined to change all that, for the better. She was good at that – finding a way to fix things; to make them better. Once her gentle heart had fixated itself on a tragic tale, she would be determined to give it a happy ending.

I hoped her little brother's strife would distract her from my own. How could she fix the fact that her daughter had spent almost ten minutes drowning in our backyard pool? How could she fix the trauma that followed – on all our behalves? I shook away the thoughts, grounding myself by staring fixedly at the champagne in my thin flute glass, tiny bubbles shooting through the yellow-tinted liquid to the surface. Things would be better now, that's what Mum said. Was she trying to convince me, or herself, or did she truly believe it?

"There you are, Pierce."

Blinking quickly out of my stupor, we turned to see Grandma moving toward us through the crowd, wearing a beige dress and one of her many silken scarves; her kitten heels tapping on the wooden deck. Alex, Uncle Chris and I tensed and shifted as she approached, seeing her wrinkled lips pursed in annoyance. "What are you doing out here? All these people are waiting inside to meet you. Come on," she huffed, taking a firm hold of my upper arm, nearly making me spill my drink. "I want you to come say hello to Father Michaels—"

"Oh, hey," Alex said, brightening. "I wonder if he knows."

"Knows what?" Grandma asked, not releasing my arm. I stared helplessly at a sympathetic Uncle Chris.

"About the light that Pierce saw when she died. I think it was the Pearly Gates but she says it was something about her brain exploding."

I shook my head at Alex, "I said it was a hallucination produced by neurons—"

"_That's _what you three are up to out here?" Grandma cried, flaring with outrage. "Committing blasphemy?"

"Nah," Alex laughed, "Blasphemy would be saying the light is seeing the hospital lamps from between their new mum's legs. But it's all relative, yeah? Hindus would say that the Pearly Gates is the blasphemous version."

Grandma looked like she had just taken a bite of a lemon. Eyes narrow, hand tight on my arm as I switched the flute between my hands so I could drink as much as I could as fast as I could.

"Well, Alexander Cabrero," she said, sharply. "You are not Hindu, and you may wish to recall just who is making the payments on that junk heap you call a car. If you'd like me to continue doing so, you may want to consider being a little more respectful."

Eyes suddenly wide, Alex stammered, "Sorry, Grandma."

Under his mother's stern gaze, Uncle Chris quickly removed his cap and suddenly found the floor rather interesting, as did his son.

"Now, Pierce," Grandma said, and I looked to see her face softening, though her grip didn't loosen. "Why don't you come inside and say hello to Father Michaels," she said. It wasn't a question. "You won't remember him, of course, you were too young. He held your grandfather's funeral, and he is absolutely delighted you'll be joining our little parish."

At the mention of the funeral, my stomach filled with bile and the warm air suddenly felt like fire on my skin; thick in my lungs. As my grandma turned to walk inside, apparently intending to drag me alongside her, a wave of nausea swelled from my stomach, spreading up my throat, and sending cold shivers throughout my body. "Actually, I'm not really feeling that great. I think I need some air."

"Now, now, come inside," she insisted, frustrated now. "It's nice and cool with the air-con on – well," she shook her head, "it would be if your mother hadn't opened every single door and window—"

"What have I done now, mother?"

My pale, dark-haired mother came sweeping into view, taking a shrimp cocktail from the tray of a passing caterer and popping one into her red-painted mouth. "There you are, darling. I was wondering where you had disappeared to." Noticing my cousin, she smiled widely, her dark eyes sparkling, "Hello, Alex – are you enjoying the party?"

His answer was interrupted by a loud huff. "Talk some sense into your daughter, won't you?"

Mum's gaze swept over Grandma's irritated form before settling upon my face. Her brow furrowed and she stood to attention at once, "Darling, are you alright?"

"She says she needs some fresh air – but she's standing outside," Grandma shook her head, but Mum didn't seem to really hear her. "What's wrong with her? Has she not taken her medication today?"

I flinched, and Mum's jaw clenched as she turned on her mother, who went on. Alex and Uncle Chris stood back and watched the debacle. I tried to keep my breaths long and even.

"I told you, Deb – she's not ready to start school. You know how she can be. Perhaps she—"

"She's fine, Mother," Mum snapped, and then looked pointedly at where Grandma _still _held my arm. After a moment, I was released, and I stumbled back a step, head suddenly light on my shoulders.

"Pierce," she said, not quite so sharp but with a firmness that woke me from the haze which began to spread throughout my mind. I blinked unsteadily at her, at her long dark hair gleaming in the light; looking fresh in her white jeans and silken top. She looked perfect. Everything was perfect. Everything was going to be great.

"I need to go," I said, throat tight, resisting the urge to clench my hands into tight fists, not wanting to shatter the flute in my grasp. Cold tingles spread like ice across my skin, and I felt myself begin to tremble.

"Okay," she said, stepping forward and placing a light, cool hand on my back to guide me away from the very confused Alex and Uncle Chris, toward the side of the garden by the gate leading out front.

"What?" Grandma cried, incredulous. "You're letting her go? But it's the middle of a party – _her _party!"

Mum ignored her. The world began to fade around me; only her hand kept me moving forward, the earthen smell of her skin, the breath of perfume floating from her hair, the way it swept over my face as she kissed me where we stood at the corner of the house, out of sight of the people and the music and the lights.

"Don't make any stops," she said to me, as my chest tightened and tears sprung to my eyes. I wanted to throw myself into her arms and sob until there was nothing left. But I couldn't do that to her. I couldn't put anyone through that. "Stay on your bike," she continued,

I nodded, and moved away, gathering the bike she had given me, complete with basket and bell, in lieu of a car, at least until I earned my driver's licence. As I opened the gate, moving the blue bike through the tall white pickets, I looked over my shoulder as she called, "Don't be too long, darling. There's a storm coming."


	3. Chapter 2

Tearing down the hill from our new house, the wind whipping through my hair and drying the few tears which managed their way down my cheeks, the air seemed cooler, lighter; it filled my lungs easily, oxygen flowing through my veins and to my white knuckled hands gripping the handles of the bike which bounced heavily and sturdily over the rough road. My vicious trembling was overtaken by the small sharp shocks shooting up my legs and from the seat below me. Focusing so intently on the steep descent, the anxiety and panic which had risen so readily took a back seat. My vision cleared, though my mind could not shake its turmoil. Speaking of my death was one thing; speaking of the day of my grandfather's funeral was another thing entirely. And now, thanks to Grandma, it was all that I could think of.

My dad cannot stand Mum's family – he's convinced they're all nothing but convicts and kooks, and to be fair he's not fair off the truth. One can't blame him in his certainty that they were not exactly proper role models for his only child. His dislike for them proved so intense that he refused to join Mum and I on the day trip we took to Isla Huesos when I was seven, to attend my grandfather's funeral. That hadn't gone done well at the time, unsurprisingly to all except my father.

The funeral was a typical affair; I sat in the pew flanked by Mum and Grandma, with young Alex at the other end. I didn't know my grandfather, but I cried because they cried.

I shook my head and wiped at my eyes with the back of my hand as the decline steadied out and my bike slowed to a casual pace. Dim streetlights passed overhead as I rode past house after house, ignoring traffic lights, not bothering to look at intersections – the streets were dead at this time of night; and anyone who was out and about was most likely up on the hill, at the party Mum threw for me. Regret and shame flared as I thought of the efforts she had made, the work she had put into organising everything, inviting everyone, decorating and preparing. And here I was, the ungrateful, crazed child who couldn't even cope with a conversation about a day that happened more than a decade ago. So many years had passed since then, and memories of that afternoon in the cemetery seemed more and more like a dream as each one went. That it was a dream was the only explanation that made sense. And then I died, and I learned otherwise.

"Go on and play outside – your mother is busy," Grandma had said.

We sat in the cemetery sexton's office, Mum and Grandma signing the last of the paperwork for Grandpa's tomb. Maybe I had been fidgeting, distracting, bored; for whatever reason, Mum had looked up through her tears and managed a small smile as she nodded at her mother's words. "It's alright, darling. Go and play in the gardens. Don't stray. We won't be long."

It was warm that day, but heavy clouds hung overhead, threatening rain. The cemetery was well-kept; the grass green, the paved path clean, the crypts pristine, and the mausoleums and tombs stood proud and intimidating against the gloomy sky.

I remember that I found the dove near the carpark by the cemetery sexton's office. It limped along the path toward the tombs, one wing dragging low at its side, clearly broken. I hurried after it, travelling further from the office than I knew my mother would allow, intending to pick it up and take it to her, she who was so good at helping; at fixing broken things. But as I approached, the wounded bird panicked and half-flew, half-leapt directly into the side of a nearby tomb, the impact of its small, delicate body against the unyielding stone giving a terrible thwack. Then it laid there and as I rushed to its side, I realised with horror that the dove was dead – that I had killed it. I sobbed harder then than I had at the funeral, my young self wracked with guilt.

That's where he had found me; on my knees low in the grass surrounded by graves, completely alone, crying over a dead bird.

"Why are you crying?" he asked, in a voice as smooth and low as thunder over gentle waves.

What stood out to me then was that he was so very tall, even as he crouched beside me. There were no alarm bells in my mind – I was too young to be suspicious and paranoid of strangers, though my mother had certainly tried her best to instil 'stranger danger' into my psyche. His face was filled with concern, and his eyes were kind. He seemed nice.

"I was trying to help," I cried, once I could get out the words through my hysterical sobs. "She was hurt and I tried to help. But she got scared and I killed her. It was an accident!"

"Yes, it _was_ an accident," the man told me softly, and through my tears I watched as he reached out one large hand and took up the dove's limp, fragile, dead body.

"I don't wanna go to Hell," I whimpered.

"Hell?" the man asked, bemused. "Why would you go there?"

"That's where murderers go," I told him, face swollen with tears and knees covered in dirt. "My grandma told me."

He gave a small, breathy laugh, watching me with kind, sympathetic eyes. "You're not a murderer," he assured me. "And I wouldn't worry about where you're going just yet."

"We should get a coffin," I hiccupped, looking at the bird cradled in his enormous scarred and calloused hand. "When someone dies we get put in a coffin and then no one sees us ever again," I told him, just as my grandma had told me earlier that day.

"Some of us do," the man nodded, voice light, "though not all. We could find her a coffin," he said. "Or…" he looked at me with a twinkle in his steely grey eyes, "I could bring her back. And she could fly away and be with her family again."

"You can't do that," I said with an indignant frown, knowing that was impossible. I rubbed my itching eyes, tears drying and tummy aching from the wracking sobs. I watched him as he slowly pet the bird, and saw him watching me in return. I shook my head at his nonsense, thinking how silly he was for an adult. "No one can do that. Dead is dead."

"I can," he told me, assuredly. "If you'd like."

My lower lip trembled as I considered, and then nodded, "Yes, please."

He didn't look from my face, even as the dove in his hand, which had been entirely and surely dead only a moment before, suddenly jerked; its head rose and its body twisted as it clambered to its feet. Then, with a bright-eyed flutter, the dove flew from the man's hand, wings beating strongly as it flew off into the cloudy grey sky.

I gaped at the place where the bird had vanished over the trees and out of view, and then turned to stare at the man beside me in wide-eyed amazement. He looked back at me, calmly and contently.

After the long moment it took for my young brain to process what had just occurred, I thought hard and then blinked at him, as he waited curiously.

"Can you bring my grandpa back to life?" I asked, softly.

He blinked, apparently surprised for a moment before gentle sympathy returned to his eyes, and he shook his head, "No. I'm sorry."

The tears returned, my mouth turned sharply downward, "But—"

"What's your name?" he asked, quickly.

"Pierce," I told him, miserably.

"Well, Pierce," he said with a tilt of his head, his wavy brown hair falling over his eyes. "I'm sure your grandpa would be very proud to know how kind you are. But it's best he be left where he is. It might scare your mother and grandmother to see him walking about after he's already been buried, don't you think?"

I looked away with a frown, not having considered this – I realised the man was probably right.

That's when Grandma came looking for me. She saw the man, I'm sure of it – he saw her, and she saw him and I know she did because the man stood smoothly from my side and they exchanged polite good afternoons before he gave me one last smile,

"Goodbye, Pierce."

And then he walked away.

I watched after him until he disappeared amongst the tombs, and then looked down at where the dove had died, and up where it had flown away. He had brought it back to life.

"Pierce," Grandma said, as I stood up, too confused to remember to brush the dirt from the front of my dress. "Do you know who that was?"

"I found a bird, Grandma," I said, not noticing her question, and suddenly bursting with excitement. "It was hurt, and I tried to help it, but it died and then he brought it back to life!"

She watched me then, steady and quiet, before glancing over to the path where the man had disappeared. I was breathless with exhilaration, and wanted to share this feeling with Grandma, but she seemed so calm about my tale.

"And did you like him?" she asked, returning her attention to my bright, red-pink and puffy face.

I was confused by the question, and disappointed that she hadn't been as excited by what had happened as I had been. "I don't know," I said, dismissively.

Grandma smiled then, for the first time all day. "You will," she said.

Then she had taken my hand, holding tight, and walked me back through the cemetery to the carpark, where Mum and Alex were waiting.

I remembered looking back. There was no sign of the man, but now scarlet blossoms had started to fall from the twisting black branches of the poinciana tree that stood tall above, bursting red as firecrackers against the gloomy grey sky. And as we climbed into the car and pulled away from the cemetery, it finally began to rain.

/

Perhaps it was this memory that had so engrossed me that I had suddenly found myself stopped at the large gates of the cemetery. I hadn't realised I'd ridden so far. Perhaps I would have kept going, but something about this place had me stop. It wasn't the first time I had travelled here since I arrived on Isla Huesos two weeks ago; more than once I had ridden here to take a walk through the gardens or read the plaques, out of some morbid curiousity.

Many others, sight-seers coming to tour the island, found it just as interesting – every coffin was placed in above-ground crypts and vaults so that when a hurricane was sure to hit, the resting dead wouldn't rise from the flooded ground and be found strung upon the palm trees, or from peoples' fences, or on the sandy shores. That's why this island had been dubbed Isla Huesos, the 'Island of Bones'. When the Spanish arrived three hundred years ago, they had found the island littered with bones; likely due to storms having disturbed old Indian burial grounds.

I found it quieting, soothing, reassuring, to be surrounded by the dead. The dead who had remained dead. I could have been amongst them, and perhaps I should have been. But I was as stubborn as my father, and as headstrong as my mother. I wasn't ready to die.

But that wasn't what had me stop outside the cemetery gates, I realised. It was the memory of the poinciana tree. I had searched for it, each time I had come here and somehow, I could never find it. But now, as I stopped by the tall black wrought-iron gates, a blanket of red caught my eye. I rested my bike against the tall fence and tried to open the gates, hearing the jangle the thick chain and heavy padlock holding it firmly shut. With a sigh I stood back and looked along the length of the fence in both directions and noticed further down the path, a large green-lidded plastic rubbish bin which lined up perfectly against the cemetery fence. A crypt was situated directly behind it on the other side.

I knew I could climb it, though I was rather anxious about the row of tall spikes lining the top. Nevertheless, I walked to it, wiping my clammy hands, then took a readying breath and clambered on top of the wobbling bin, feeling the lid bend threateningly under my weight. Heart fluttering nervously in my chest but filled with determination, I grasped the nearest spike with one hand and the top of the fence with the other and with a grunt I pulled myself up onto the fence, arms shaking as they held my full mass for a short moment before awkwardly twisting both of my legs underneath me and onto the other side, where I twisted around and looked below me, reaching out a foot to plant on top of the weather-roughed stone roof of the crypt, then with a huff and a hard push backward, I landed solidly upon the cool crypt.

Wincing as I shook my hands, massaging where the metal had dug into my skin, I wandered to the edge, glancing down at the grass not too far below me, then, with hands aching, I sat down, turned my body and carefully lowered myself down, legs dangling in the air for a moment while I considered where exactly I wanted to land. But my now slightly grazed and rather tender hands proved too sore – I lost my grip; slipping off the stone and falling to the ground with a sharp gasp of surprise. But though the impact reverberated violently up my heels to my knees, and I stumbled back with a pained grunt, I kept on my feet.

Wiping my sore hands down the front of my dress I gazed up, for a moment rather impressed with myself; that is, until I realised that I had no idea how the heck I was gonna climb back out of here. But that problem was for later, I decided. Turning away to find the paved and winding path amongst the tombs, I thanked the moonlight which shone brightly above, allowing just enough light to perceive the dark cemetery on my journey toward the poinciana tree.

Somewhere in the distance, the sky growled with thunder, the storm moving closer. I padded cautiously down the paved path toward the tree, which seemed to have shaken itself free of its flowers which now lied dried and withered upon the path, grass and on the roof and stairs of the crypt beneath it; the red stark even in the darkness of the night. All was quiet – the tombs, the air, my mind – but for the distant chirping of the crickets and cicadas, and the rustling palm fronds overhead. I simply stood and stared up at that tree and its black writhing branches, and at the fallen blossoms below, so striking in their contrast. I gazed at the crypt and at the place beside it where the dove had fallen and died, and where he had brought it back. This is the place where we had first met, he and I. Before everything had happened - all so fast.

The gentle wind lifted my hair around my shoulders and disturbed the dried petals; they swirled and moved as waves, whispering to one another as they scattered further down the path. The movement produced a crinkling sound, not unlike that I heard in those first moments two years ago. I blinked, flinched, hissed – but once the memory – any memory such as this – was in my head, all I could do was ride it out.


	4. Chapter 3

The accident was my fault. I tripped on my own scarf, hit my head and fell onto the pool cover which was stretched from one end of our pool to the other. The pool cover collapsed beneath me, the rusty rungs which were supposed to keep it firm in cases such as this broke at once under my weight, and I sunk to the bottom of the pool without a splash, the heavy canvas encasing my submerged body like a cocoon. The temperature of the water was as paralysing as the blow I'd received to my head. In the depths, my winter coat and boots weighed down my arms and legs – I couldn't fight my way through the wrappings of the pool cover even if I tried.

Drowning doesn't happen in real life the way it does in the movies. Once you've gone under and water enters your mouth, your epiglottis involuntarily closes over the trachea, trying to hold onto whatever air is left in your lungs. When this fails, your lungs fill with water, except it doesn't feel like water – it's molten lava in your chest, in your throat. I clawed at my jacket and at the canvas, but every movement caused it to constrict tighter, like a python subduing its prey. I struggled, not knowing which way was up, and I writhed and I thrashed until there wasn't enough oxygen to allow me the energy to keep fighting. I felt heavy; there was no air left, and between this, the weight of the canvas and my winter clothes, the moment movement stopped, I sank like a stone to the bottom of the pool.

Ironically, it was then that the pool cover loosened its grip, and I could see the afternoon sunlight peeking through the canvas as it swayed like kelp around me. All I could hear was the sound of my own slowing heartbeat, and the final remaining air bubbling from my throat. The sunlight trickled through the leaves that had blown across the pool surface, casting patterns into my blurred vision that reminded me of the stained-glass windows in the church where they had held Grandpa's funeral, where I had seen that poinciana tree, with its branches dark and its flowers as red as the tassels on my scarf which now floated above my face as I lied dying at the bottom of our pool. Then came unconsciousness; respiratory arrest, and luckily for me, hypothermia.

And all of this, for the sake of my wanting to rescue a bird I had thought was injured – but the moment I tripped it had flown away, completely fine. Unlike me.

Dad had been inside at the time, on a conference call in his study at the far end of the house. Mum was at the library, finishing her dissertation on the mating habits of roseate spoonbills. It was the housekeeper's day off. But whatever it was - by coincidence or luck, Mum had come home early.

In those first few months following the accident, there were so many occasions that I would come home from school, or would walk by her study, or her room in the middle of the night as I snuck into the kitchen for snacks, that I would hear her crying. She cried more in those months than I had in the last two years. I knew she had gone to therapy and I could not have felt more guilty at the fact that she was suffering so much because of me.

I could not imagine how she must have felt, coming home and finding Dad in the study, casually asking where I was, searching the house and calling my name growing more and more confused – until she looked outside and saw the collapsed pool cover, sunken deep in its centre, weighed down by what she immediately and instinctively knew to be. She slammed open the backdoor and the pool gate open, stripping off her jacket, crying out in frustration as she tugged violently at her boots, and then she dove into those icy waters without a second thought.

She did everything right, the paramedics and the doctors told her – checking for signs of life, commencing CPR, continuing to pump my chest even as she pulled out her phone and called the ambulance. Dad only realised what was happening when he heard the ambulance arrive, sirens blaring, red and blue lights flashing bright. For the entire 12 minutes it took for the ambulance to arrive and hurry me to the hospital, Mum hadn't stopped trying with all she could to keep me alive.

And when I awoke, it was her face that I saw first – looking down at me with blue lips, shivering and pale, with dark hair frozen as icicles. I saw through the haze, her face twisted with agonised, tormented terror.

"Mum?" I rasped, trying to turn toward her, wanting to ask what was wrong – was she okay? My throat tore as if filled with shattered glass, my lungs opening and closing as they should and yet feeling as scorched as a fresh burn.

At the sound of my voice, she gave a cry and tried to reach for me where I lied on a cool, crinkly, hard bed, covered in scratchy blankets, feeling metal and plastic around me, hearing beeping, and blinded by lights, dressed only in a flimsy green hospital gown, and wanting to vomit and pass out and for someone to tell me what the heck was going on. Nurses held her back, telling her she needed to let the doctors do their job. Mum's entire face had brightened, eyes shining with wild, joyous hope, even as I shuddered and felt my head spin.

Someone asked me questions – who I was, what year it was, how many fingers were they holding up. I answered, my voice sounding a thousand miles away. The memories of what had just happened were coming back – drowning, falling, the confusion, the fear. Yet here I was, confused, freezing cold, in absolute agony, but alive. And away from him.

My parents' divorce proceedings had begun while I was still in hospital. The day following the accident, Mum had thrown Dad out of the house where he had sat while his daughter lied near-drowned only a dozen metres away. So, Dad had gone to live in the penthouse apartment near his company's office building in Manhattan, never imagining that, a year and a half later he'd still be calling it home.

"It's important to forgive and forget," Dad says almost every time we speak. "Then you can move on. Your mother needs to learn that."

And while I didn't blame Dad for what had happened – Mum did. And that was the end of it. I should have been more upset about the divorce, but at the time I was preoccupied with more pressing matters.

/

They had told me, everyone had told me, that for my own good, my own mental well-being, it was so very important to remember that what had come after I fell unconscious, after I died, wasn't real; it had been a lucid dream – that was the reason I could control my actions, make my own decisions: escape. I'd sat across from those doctors and psychiatrists and had nodded and agreed that they were right. On the walls behind their desks hung framed diplomas and degrees, some of them from the same Ivy League schools my parents now despaired of my never attending. They couldn't see that of all these; none of it mattered. Because not one of those doctors had the slightest idea what they were talking about.

"He isn't real," they had all said.

Yet, I had proof. It hung solidly upon my chest, heavy and reassuring. I could have presented it to any of them, could have stood in their offices and shown them and laughed in their faces as they protested lucid dreaming, hallucinations, delusions. But I never did, because though none of them believed me and none of them truly helped, they had tried, like my mother had tried, but in the end, how could they believe me? How could they help me? So, I kept it to myself. I clutched the stone hanging at the end of the fine golden chain around my neck, and the mere touch of it soothed me in a way that was inexplicable. Proof. That I wasn't crazy. That I hadn't dreamed it. That it was all real. He was real.

To be fair, at first, I had almost believed them – they were neurologists and trauma specialists and doctors with Ivy League degrees, who was I to say they were wrong? It was when I was just finishing off signing the papers to discharge myself from the hospital that Mum perked up as if remembering something, and as we walked toward the doors, I watched her reach into her bag and rifle around for a moment. "Oh, darling, I almost forgot," she said, and I watched curiously, feeling in a good mood now I could finally get out of this clinical, sterile-smelling, place with its endless long halls and harsh fluorescent lights.

And then she pulled the necklace from the depths of her bag.

I stopped in my tracks, freezing in the middle of the reception area, pure horror written across my face and violently twisting my insides. The blue-grey stone hung in the air, suspended by the length of the chain, swaying slightly, making it shimmer ethereally. Confused, Mum stopped to face me. "Pierce? What's wrong?"

For a moment it was if I couldn't hear her, or anything, beyond the ringing in my eyes and my laboured breathing – my eyes were fixated entirely on the impossible object in her hand. How could it be here? She stepped toward me, reaching out in concern, and that was when I shook myself and looked at her, quickly smoothing my features and trying an awkward laugh. "Sorry, yeah I'm fine," I assured her. I glanced down at the necklace, trying to sound casual, "Where did you get that?"

"They brought it out with your things. Apparently, you were wearing it under your shirt. I've never seen it before – it's gorgeous," she said, smiling at it appreciatively. My stomach clenched – there was an urge to reach out and snatch it from her hand. I swallowed hard and nodded.

"Yeah, it was just something I brought from the market a while back."

"Oh," Mum said, and slowly handed it back. The feeling of the cool deep blue-grey stone was cool in my hand, not too heavy and not too light, and the golden chain glimmered in the light. Gorgeous, indeed. "It's always so exciting when you spot such a good find," she smiled. I smiled tightly back, and then we kept walking.

My hand tightened around the stone as we walked across the carpark to the pay station, standing back as Mum paid for parking. Slowly, then, my hand loosened and I stared down at it and saw that the grey wasn't situated on the surface but rather was produced by a gently swirling bundle of mist in its centre, and I saw upon closer inspection that the blue-grey was slowly shifting tones, and that every few moments a flicker of bright colour sparked through like streaks of lightning far in the distance; orange, purple, bright blue. This couldn't exist if it had all just been a dream. This meant it was real. It was all real. He was real. This was proof. My fingers closed around it and I looked around anxiously.

"Pierce, darling, are you ready?"

Swallowing hard as I heard Mum call from behind, in a smooth movement I raised the chain over my head and slipped the stone beneath my shirt.

"Yeah," I called. I turned and we walked to the car, chatting idly, and then pulled out and away from the hospital. The stone felt cool and solid over my chest; it felt right. I could count on one hand how many times I had taken it off in the years since.

/

I sighed as the memory faded. My heart fluttered in my ears and I felt queasy, but with deep breaths, closed eyes and gentle grounding techniques – shout out to psychiatrists and their coping methods – I felt a little more okay. Not a lot, but just enough to not crumple to the ground and rock my way through another panic attack. For a long few moments I simply stood and breathed in the night air, then a deep breath and I gazed upward at the stars and noticed that a grey carpet of clouds was slowly being pulled over the night sky – soon the Moon's light would vanish and things would get very, very dark.

It was perfect timing - I had calmed considerably since I left the house and felt ready to return and face the literal music. Now I just had to figure out how to get myself out of here. It would fully suck if I had to set myself up somewhere and wait until the cemetery sexton – who I knew for sure had a vendetta against me, just because I had ridden my bike through along the cemetery path once or twice – came and unlocked the gates. "Hmph," I grunted, turning my back on the poinciana and on the crypt below it, looking about for something to help me escape.

Casually making my way back down the path, kicking at the dried red flowers at my feet, a cool tingle suddenly spread across my chest, then my shoulders and up the back of my neck, rising the thin hairs there. The stone beneath my shirt became warm – comforting. But I knew what that sensation it had sent across my body meant – _someone_ was behind me.

I felt eyes on the back of my head. Dry leaves and petals were crushed underfoot, the sound of this coming toward me along the path which had only a moment ago been completely barren. It sounded almost like the crunching of broken bones. I tensed. I didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The necklace knew. I knew.

Damning myself for tempting fate, for coming to this place, for risking it despite my well-documented complete lack of luck, I considered walking on – just ignoring him and going home. Pretend it was nothing but a paranoid delusion. But something told me that wasn't in the cards. So, stomach twisting, I turned on my heel to face him. My breath caught in my chest, and it was like everything inside me shut down. My vision darkened at the edges until it was just him. My ears rang and my skin was ice. I was somewhere between dissociation, the beginnings of a panic attack, and absolute clarity.

He looked exactly as he always had – that day in the cemetery and every other instance I had seen him since; dark brown hair, pale skin, dressed in all black; tall and broad-shouldered – the epitome of fearsome and intimidating. There seemed something regal about him as he stood beneath the dark branches which dripped with red flowers.

My body was tense, seemingly frozen as the wind blew, and he was just as still as I. The poinciana blossoms danced along the path between us. My chest felt tight beneath the cool stone which hung from my neck and it took a moment before I reminded myself that I needed to breathe. His stare was severe, his large form completely unmoving and I felt awkward and exposed standing there captured beneath his gaze.

The silence dragged on, and I saw he didn't intend to be the first to speak, so with chest tight and voice shaking, I offered,

"Uh, hi—"

His voice cut sharply through the night air..

_"What are you doing here?"_


	5. Chapter 4

His voice was thunder, just as I remembered it – low, smooth, powerful – dangerous. At the sound of it, something in me clicked and that absolute clarity became reality. Still, that tunnel vision remained – my focus was entirely on him.

I hadn't expected this, but I should have known better, considering this was where we had first met all those years ago – perhaps I had ignored the possibility, refused the idea of seeing him again. Dammit, I had just wanted to see the poinciana tree. Now, here he was. And this time I knew _who_ he was, and I knew what he was capable of. I shook myself and remembered he had asked a question.

"We, uh, we – Mum and me – just moved here. To make a new start after… well, you know."

I cringed at myself, lowering my head to rub my neck awkwardly. He didn't move. With an expression like stone, eyes dark beneath his brow, it was clear that he was not glad to hear this; not glad to see me. To be fair, I wasn't particularly thrilled to see him either.

"It's not my fault," I told him, crossing my arms over my chest defensively. "My mum wants to save the birds."

I saw his expression change, and his large form shifted, chin tilting upward as he scowled.

"I meant," he snapped, "what are you doing here now, tonight – in the cemetery, alone."

I swallowed hard at the anxious lump in my throat and wet my suddenly dry lips. My eyes lowered to the ground, brow furrowed as I tried to gather my thoughts – and in the short moment between looking away from him to the ground, and again raising my head, he had somehow managed to close much of the distance between us – I hadn't even heard him move, no footsteps, no breaths, no rustling of his clothes. He wasn't so close that I could reach out and touch him, but close enough that I had to raise my chin to look at his face. He was so tall, his shoulders so wide. I had no doubt that he could pick me up with ease and take me wherever he pleased – and I would not be able to do a thing to stop him. I shivered and took an involuntary backward step, jaw tightening and frown deepening.

I shouldn't have come here.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I had supposed, had hoped, seemingly foolishly, that after all this time he had perhaps managed to 'forgive and forget', as my dad insisted all should. But the cold steel of his eyes told otherwise – once there had been warmth, flecks of blue amongst the light grey, but that was a long time ago, in another life.

"I was just…"

He was here. We were talking. He was angry to see me, and I didn't know what I felt. What did I want to say to him? I wracked my brain, and I remembered that night; that room, the fireplace, the cup of tea. I remembered what he did to me, and I remembered what I did to him. Despite everything he had said and done, I'd always felt bad about it. Well, new beginnings right?

I took a deep breath, holding his stare. "I just wanted to say that what I did when I… you know. It wasn't personal. I am sorry that it happened," I apologised, earnestly, rubbing my neck. I felt my heart fluttering nervously in my chest. "So, yeah. I'm sorry. And I uh, I hope there's no hard feelings."

"_No hard feelings_," he repeated, coldly. His body radiated anger; eyes like ice.

I blinked, taken aback. Apparently, this was the wrong thing to say.

"Of course. I understand – no hard feelings," he sneered.

I took another step back. "Yeah," I said, slowly. "Is there something else you wanted me to say?"

"There's nothing _to _say – you made your decision and acted upon it; damn the consequences."

"Consequences?" I spluttered. "What are you talking about?"

His jaw tightened; eyes hard – it was clear he didn't intend to elaborate. It was clear then that the consequences were suffered by him. But did he mean that he suffered them because of me? What were they, and who enforced them? Though I was naturally curious, I didn't feel any empathy for him. He had done what he had done and if there were consequences for it, then he had only himself to blame. So I didn't press the topic further; if he didn't want to tell then I didn't want to ask.

My arms uncrossed as I gestured helplessly. "What did you expect me to do?" I asked.

"I expected you to honour your word," he growled, fists tight at his sides.

"My word," I scoffed, agitation overtaking anxiety. "It was a promise made under duress."

"Duress?" His body rippled, face contorting with outrage, "You were _never _in danger."

"You _kidnapped _me!"

"_You chose me!_" he said, stepping toward me. "You promised you would stay!"

He towered above me, now close enough to touch and to feel the heat of his body. His grey eyes burned with bright intensity, glare unwavering.

"Well," I huffed. My heart spiked with healthy fear, but still I carried on. "I'm sorry if it's such a surprise to you that I would rather break a promise to the man who kidnapped me than risk being trapped with him forever."

"Trapped?" he cried, angered and bewildered. "You speak as if I intended to hold you as my prisoner."

"A gilded cage is still a cage."

His nostrils flared and he took another step toward me, and then we were stood so close that to move any further would have us touching. Our eyes burned into one another, faces flushed and chests heaving with anger. I should have been terrified, should have submitted to his anger, had tried to escape him, but it hadn't crossed my mind. This close to him now, I could see the lines on his face, the stubble on his jaw, and the flecks of silver-blue in his grey eyes. Unbidden, my expression softened though my brow remained furrowed.

His own expression was unchanged, and in his face I could see all too clearly that he hated me. It was undoubtedly expected, and I shouldn't have minded it in the least. I tried very hard to ignore the way my chest clenched at the thought of it; that I was hated by _him._ How absolutely ridiculous. I reminded myself that I didn't know him. I didn't know him and he didn't know me and we each had absolutely no reason to trust or like one another. I threw my memories of what he had done to me, and what he had done to other people, into the forefront of my mind. I didn't know this man. I didn't trust this man. And he had proved himself both untrustworthy and incredibly dangerous on every occasion I had ever met him. I swallowed hard but forced myself to keep his stare, and after some time, he proved the one to break it. Shaking his head, he gazed angrily around. The wind had picked up, and the smell of rain began to fill the air – the thunder was close now, and I could see the bright flashes of lightning bursting from the dark oncoming clouds.

"You should leave."

That was my moment to turn tail and go; to fetch my bike and race back home, and never again enter the cemetery gates. But at the time, this thought never crossed my mind. I stood my ground with a huff which drew his attention once more. Before either of us could say more, his eyes fell to my chest, and he jerked and suddenly became entirely still.

Confused, I looked down and saw that my necklace had slipped from the neck of my dress.

My stomach clenched anxiously as I reached up to grasp the stone, which shone with the same grey as his eyes, hiding it from view. The night held its breath.

"_You still have it," _he gasped.

His voice no longer rumbled and growled but had become in the way he had spoken to me when I was young, and when I was dead.

"Yeah. I still have it," I said.

There suddenly seemed no anger left in him as he stood before me with mouth agape, shoulders loose and grey eyes wide and searching my own.

_"Why?"_

Because it was proof that what had happened wasn't a dream. It was proof that he was real. It was proof that my parents and my friends and the doctors were all wrong and that I wasn't crazy. And because I had loved that rock from the moment he had given it to me.

"You told me that it would protect me from evil – I thought that was a good enough reason to hold onto it."

As he continued to stare, my heart began to fall. He had given me this stone as a gift after I had given that promise. I hadn't thought to leave it behind when I fled – I hadn't any time to. So, for this and all other reasons, I had kept it. But now he stood appearing aghast at the sight of it hung about my neck, and I soon came to the conclusion that it was very likely that he might demand its return. Reluctantly; hesitantly, with fist grasping tight, I asked, "Do you want it back?"

It nearly killed me to ask. But the time had come, I told myself – a new start. So, with mouth downturned, and brow furrowed deep, I pulled the chain over my head, not caring as it tangled in my long hair – I tugged it loose, knot of hair and all. Then I held it out to him, abjectly miserable as my neck and chest immediately felt awkward and bare in its absence.

"Here," I grunted. "Take it. It's yours." I shook my head, "You should never have given it to me in the first place."

In an instant, a wave came over him; his body tensing, shoulders rippling, and lips peeling back as he bared his teeth like a wild thing. Darkness seemed to encompass him, curling around him in snaking tendrils that blew like mist into the warm night air. Snarling in fury, eyes burning hatefully, he snatched the stone from my outstretched hand. I flinched away, stumbling back a step as if burned, eyes wide in shock as he loomed over me, more terrifying than anyone I had ever known.

"I gave you this," he hissed, shaking the necklace in my face, "to protect you when I could not. I gave it because it was meant for you." He shook his head at me, disgusted. "But since you clearly don't want it –"

I couldn't help but step forward with a horrified cry as he suddenly turned and in a swift, powerful movement, threw the necklace as far as he could. It sailed through the night sky. I couldn't see just how far it had gone but I stared in its direction, devastated. His voice rumbled dangerously, the sound unsettling my bones, constricting my heart, roiling my stomach. I heard my rapid heartbeat in my ears, felt the tears swimming in my eyes.

"Leave, Pierce," he commanded, darkly. "Do not come here again."

And I would have, most eagerly. Then my eyes caught sight on the arm he had just used to toss my necklace far into the darkness, - where it was hopeless to think that I might ever find it – and saw upon his skin the ugly line of a pale-pink puckered scar, winding up his forearm to just above the crease of his elbow. Through the tears and the heartbreak of my loss, I heard myself ask in a shaky voice; thoughtlessly, inappropriately and completely unbidden, "What happened to your arm?"

He blinked, "What?"

"Your arm." I nodded to it, hugging myself as I looked up at him. "Who did that?" I asked. "Was that a consequence?"

His eyes softened, though his dark expression was unchanged, shoulders tight, his entire form seeming ready to pounce forward and tear me apart.

"Don't," he warned, voice biting. There was something dark behind his cold grey eyes.

"Don't what?"

_"I am no bird." _

The wind blew between us, sending scarlet flowers dancing through the air and skipping across the smooth path and soft grass.

"I am sorry. Really," I told him, heart wrenching in my chest. "I'm sorry that whoever hurt you did it because I left." I shook my head, face the picture of remorse. "I never meant for any of this to happen," I said. "What you did to the jeweller, and with the teacher… I don't know how… I suppose you were trying to help but…" I winced. There wasn't an easy way to describe what he had done, nor the absolute shitshow caused by his interference during the incident at Westport Academy for Girls. "It was my fault. I'm sorry."

"Hmph. And now you're here," he rumbled lowly. "A new start."

"Exactly," I told him, "And I think it would be a good idea for this to be a new start for both of us."

I wasn't expecting the way his breath caught quietly in his chest and how he tensed, standing tall. He searched my face, and I saw a flash of something light in the darkness of his gaze. I crossed my arms tightly, stomach clenching anxiously. I didn't trust him.

"If you stay away from me," I said, voice clear and firm, "I promise to stay away from you."

Thunder roared overhead with such ferocity that I started – it had sounded as if were directly above the cemetery, which was impossible because I could see the clouds still in the not so far distance.

But the fright of the thunder was nothing compared the fear that shot through me at the change that overcome him. Face contorting viciously, lips peeling back from his teeth and eyes flame, I almost expected him to roar and snarl and pick me up and throw me as far as he had my necklace. I stumbled back but in an instant his hand shot out and snatched hold of my arm, his large hands encircling it in a tight grip, and sharply tugged me to him, making me gasp.

He touched me without a thought, without hesitation – he had no qualms about putting his hands on me, to pull me closer, to hold me still – whether I liked it or not. We were nearly chest to chest, I could feel his hot breath on my face and the hand holding my arm felt like fire on my skin, sending sparks of heat throughout my flesh. I shivered in his powerful grasp.

"Why should I believe a word you say?" he sneered. "A liar is a liar is a _liar_."

I trembled, captured by the intensity of his eyes and the raw masculine power of his body above me, holding me – clearly wanting to hurt and maim and rend – and yet proving that with his strength came an absolute will not to submit to those violent urges. Not this time. Not with me.

"I am not under duress," I whispered, a torrent of emotion swirling within me, the vortex quickening the longer his hand was wrapped around my arm. "So, a promise is a promise…" I told him, "Whether you like it or not."

I saw his nostrils flare as he searched my face a long moment more. "Fine," he snarled. Then, with his expression set, he tightened his hold and without the slightest effort he pulled me round and physically dragged me along the path to the cemetery gates.

"Hey!" I protested. "Let me go!"

John didn't slow pace nor glance over his shoulder at my words.

"Goddammit! Seriously, let go - you're hurting me!"

His hand threw itself from my arm as if it had stung him, and he whipped around in the same moment, eyes searching my face. I stepped out of his reach, rubbing my arm. We stood before the tall cemetery gates which were still held closed with the heavy chain and lock.

"What is wrong with you?" I cried. With body electrified with adrenaline, blood pumping in my ears and chest clenching with what I realised were very likely oncoming tears. "You don't get to just grab me like that – who do you think you are?" I demanded, heart pounding hard against my sternum. "None of this is my fault," I cried. "I died. And _you_ tricked me. I saw a chance to not be dead anymore and I took it. And yes, I broke a promise I made to you to do it. But I am not the bad guy here, and _you_ have no right to treat me like I am."

"I_ saved_ you," he told me, apparently honestly believing it. I shook my head in furious wonder.

"You _used _me – or at least intended to."

I hissed a breath, amazed at the shit-show that was my life.

"You took me from that beach," I cried, "you made me miss the boat – and it was all very convenient that you _failed to mention_ what that would mean for me. You took me to that place and refused to help me, refused to let me go. Honestly, why am _I _the one apologising? I only did what I had to, to get away. If there's anyone here who should be saying sorry it's _you." _

I wasn't surprised by his stony silence. It was so painfully clear – he didn't regret a thing. But when I looked at him, his eyes were so terribly, heart-achingly sad. I wanted to hate him for it. How dare he not apologise? How dare he not feel remorse? How dare he do such a horrible thing? And it was all too clear to us both that if we could have a do-ever, he would do the exact same thing.

"Christ," I laughed humourlessly to myself, resentment tainting my voice. "I should have stayed in that line."

A hand on my shoulder and John had grabbed me again now to turn me to face him. "Do not say that," he snapped, silver eyes alight. "_Ever._"

I shook his hand off me, stepping back. "Don't touch me," I told him, voice hard. "You've no right. Do _not_ touch me."

We stared at one another for a long moment. I felt like I'd fallen apart, my pieces scattered amongst the poinciana flowers swirling around our feet. He, meanwhile, looked fearsome, tall, regal and as cold and hard as stone.

Staring into his strange and familiar face, all at once exhaustion suddenly crashed down upon me. I just wanted this to be over. "There's nothing more to say," I told him. "You stay away from me. I'll stay away from you."

Face contorting, he stepped away. The space between us was tangible.

"Your wish is my command," he told me with a deep voice like poison molasses.

A huge bolt of lightning lit up the clouds, and then a crack of thunder, so loud I thought the sky was splitting into two shook the very ground and filled my chest. John took several calculated steps away, and I watched him in confusion until I saw the gates just behind me. In the same instant John had raised his leg, I jumped away with a cry. And then an explosion – his foot struck the tall, solid gates, hard, and the metal lock gave a loud scream before it shattered; the chain snapped and the broken ringlets tinkled across the bitumen. The gates themselves flung open wide, and the force of his kick had them crumple in the centre where the lock had held them.

I gaped in astonishment – horror – fear – as they creaked to a standstill, bent over halfway as if collapsing upon itself, one appeared to have a failing hinge – it leaned further and further over until it fell with a mighty metallic clatter that made me jump. Bits of metal were littered across the entranceway to the graveyard, the sound of grating metal screeched from the still standing gate as it swung on an angle. My heart pounded in my chest as I held my arm where he had been holding me only moments before.

He had destroyed the gates.

I stared at the unsalvageable mess of metal, and then looked at the man responsible. He didn't look at me.

"Get out."

I blinked, stunned. "You just –"

"Get out," he commanded, voice dark and cold. There would be no more talking. He still hadn't looked at me. "Get out and do not come back."

The moon disappeared behind the storm clouds. Lightning lit the sky, and thunder cracked violently above, and I felt the static in the air. The storm had arrived.

I stared at him a moment more. He gazed fixedly ahead, looking like he was made of stone – perfectly still. He wasn't going to look at me again. I got the message. I moved toward the chaotic mess he had created with a single sharp kick, and then with shoulders tight, I looked at him over my shoulder.

"Goodbye, John."

And then I carefully moved through the ruins of the cemetery gates, hurried across to the path by the cemetery fence where I had left my bike, swung myself up and sped away as fast as my legs could pedal.


	6. Chapter 5

I let myself through the back gate, dumped my bike by the hose reel attached to the house, smoothed my hair and hoped that I didn't look quite so frazzled as I felt. Nothing felt real as I walked back through the gate and to the front door I went, and not long after knocking, Mum opened it. Warmth bloomed dully in my chest as I saw the grin that lit her face when she saw it was me.

"Oh, hello darling. I'm glad you made it back before the storm," she said, holding the door open as I stepped inside. "It looks like it's about to pour any minute. Did you have a nice ride?"

I rubbed my neck, looking about the house and peering down the hall to see that her party was still in full swing. "Yeah," I answered, distractedly. My voice sounded far away.

"Are you alright, Pierce?"

I turned to look at my mum, with her rosy cheeks and bright, worried eyes searching my face, her smile still present but now softer; caring. The warmth in my chest had a sharp edge now that made my breath hitch. My heart thudded unevenly, and I felt light-headed.

"I'm fine," I nodded, lying to us both. "Having a good time?" I nodded my head toward the sound of music and guests.

"I'm having a great time," she grinned. "It's so good to see everyone again. I think even your Uncle Chris enjoyed himself."

"I'm glad," I told her and then stepped forward to give her a big hug. "I'm really tired. I'm gonna head to bed."

Mum held me tight for a long moment, and then pulled back, holding my arms gently. "Oh," she said, looking disappointed. "Don't you want to say goodnight to everyone? Your grandma, Uncle Chris and Alex have been waiting back to see you before they go home."

My entire body rejected the idea – I couldn't face people right now. I just wanted to curl up in bed, pull the covers over my head and never come out.

"Mum, I'm_ really_ tired, I think I just need to go to bed. Could you just tell them that I'm sorry, and thank you for coming. And that I'll see Alex tomorrow morning, if he's still picking me up for school?" I couldn't remember what I had said the moment it came out of my mouth – what were we talking about?

"He is," Mum nodded, "He was telling me earlier. They'll be upset, but I'm sure they'll understand. Go get some rest, darling."

I hugged her again. "'Night Mum."

Hurrying up the stairs, I went to my room, changed into my pyjamas and proceeded to lie awake, staring at the roof. I heard the guests leave, and Mum go to bed. The storm had arrived in full force, and – as it often seemed to happen here – the power went out. Rain streamed down my window pane in sheets. Our little kidney-shaped pool in the backyard was threatening to overflow, and the wind tossed the palm fronds like pieces of newspaper.

Had all that really just happened? I wondered numbly. Had I really just seen him, spoken to him, touched and been touched by him? He had destroyed the cemetery gates with one sharp kick. How? Who was he, where was he from and why was he here? He had taken my necklace – my neck felt uncomfortably bare – and thrown it away; lost forever. And I mourned it and the idea that one day a tourist might come across it and it might end up for sale online or in a pawnshop somewhere.

John hated me. He had followed me. He had saved me. Then he had all but told me to fuck off. I had promised him I would, and this time my promise would be kept. But in my mind's eye, I couldn't stop seeing his sad silver eyes. I stared at the roof. And then at the wall. And then at the back of my eyelids. I felt heavy and still, like a discarded doll. My body sank into the soft mattress, my head on the pillow, but I didn't feel comfort. I didn't feel much of anything. I just laid there and breathed.

The sun came up and with its light came the feeling of reality – I was me again, and not just an empty, heavy thing. Dissociation was a hell of a bitch. I crawled out of bed and into a scalding hot shower. I inspected my arms as I washed, expecting to see marks on my skin where he had held me, but there were none, though I could have sworn they'd singed me to the bone. I shook my head – it didn't matter anymore that I had no necklace, had no bruises, had no proof of what I had seen, what I had felt. I didn't need a rock to prove it all. Not to myself or to anyone.

I tried it shake it all off. I had given my apology as well as a piece of my mind. He had told me to stay away, and I promised him I would. It almost felt like there should be some feeling of closure after all this, but after seeing, speaking and touching him, closure felt a distant dream. All I felt, as I pulled my shirt over my head and tied my laces and packed my bag for the first day at my new school, was dread.

But nevertheless, I was determined. I would stay away. I would never see him again. I was going to throw myself all in to Mum's 'make a new start' programme. I had died and come back and now I was the closest I had been to okay in a long while, and it was time to take the life I had fought and suffered for and make it my own.

Mum had already left for work by the time I finally left my room – I had waited until I heard her car pull out and disappear down the road. She had packed a lunchbox and left a note wishing me good luck on my first day and had signed it with a smiley face and a love heart. It made me smile as I downed the medication she had laid out on the counter beside it. I was half-way through my coffee when my phone lit up with a message from Alex telling me he was outside. I sculled the remainder of the hot drink, wincing as I felt it scald my oesophagus, grabbed my bag and headed out.

It was warm out and the air, though still wet from the storm last night, was not heavy. Alex waited in his battered but persevering rust bucket of a car, with all four windows down to accommodate for the broken aircon. I hurried over and climbed inside.

"Morning," I sung, putting my bag by my feet and strapping myself in. The car smelled musty, and there was a strong undertone

"Hullo," he greeted. "How you doing? Your mum said you went to bed early cause you felt sick. Didn't even come say goodbye."

"Sorry about that. I wasn't feeling great."

"Yeah, well you also ran off and left me alone with _Grandma_," he huffed, shaking his head. He scowled and honked at a group of tourists who had wandered into the middle of the road to photograph a large banyan tree in the park nearby. "What the hell – what do these people think, they're on Main Street at Disneyland? Just standing in the road – some of us actually live here, you know." He held his hand on the horn hard and it wailed long and loud until the tourists took proper notice and hurried out of the way, waving in apology. The moment they were out of the way, Alex lurched forward, speeding down the road toward the school.

"I'm sorry," I apologised again, feeling guilty. He side-eyed me for a moment, and then nodded.

"Anyway," he said, turning up the radio, "I almost crashed on the way to yours."

"Really?" I gasped, "What happened?"

"Turned into the bottom of your street and drove through a pile of dead flowers that exploded all over my windshield. Look, you can see some still stuck in the wipers." He pointed and I leaned forward to see the crisp and dead curls of red flowers fluttering in the wind. "I couldn't see through it, and I almost had a head-on with someone going the other way."

"Holy crap, are you okay?"

"Yeah," he laughed shortly, shifting in his seat. "I'm fine. They look like they're from the tree down by the cemetery. Can't remember what it's called—"

"Poinciana," I said, feeling suddenly tense. There was no way it was in any way related to all else that happened last night, but all I could think of was the thick layer of poinciana flowers which crunched beneath our feet and swirled around us as we spoke beneath the growing storm. "It's a poinciana tree."

"Poinciana," he nodded. "Wouldn't have guessed that. The storm must have knocked them all off and swept them all the way up your street. Pretty weird."

"Yeah," I muttered, frowning out the window. "Weird."

"Ah, well. So, how you feeling – you ready for today?" he asked, with a curious, playful look.

Anxiety pooled in my gut. With a nervous chuckle, I nodded, "Yeah. Fake it til you make it, right?"

Alex laughed, but gave a supportive smile. Then he turned up the radio and I stared thoughtfully out the window as we cruised through town toward Isla Huesos High School.

/

I hadn't been back at my old school, Westport Academy for Girls, for even a full week before my 'best friend', Hannah Chang, dumped me after my bluntly telling her that doing things like hanging out at the mall after school and hoping to catch glimpses of her older brother's friends, or holding our breath when passing by the graveyard else lest evil spirits possess our souls, was stupid and that I was done with such things.

She told me I had changed, that I was a 'such a downer' and was no fun anymore. And then she called me crazy, and it got around school, and it stuck. I was the girl who had almost died and had come back crazy. Whatever other friends I had, had followed Hannah's lead and abandoned me. Our drama teacher told me that it would be unfair for me to put any more stress on myself considering my circumstance, and had given the part of Snow White to Hannah, and made me script girl.

Hannah had apologised and I could tell that she meant it, but it was too little too late and I told her so. I told her a lot of things that day – that she was a terrible friend and an awful person who had abandoned me when I needed her most, turned the entire school against me and as a cherry on top, stolen my spot in the school play. Whatever friendship we had shared was gone – I burnt the bridge between us with my hurt and rage, and I left her crying by the school gate.

Sometimes giving people a piece of your mind can be therapeutic, but walking away from Hannah felt like a piece of my heart had shrivelled and died. In the end, dissociation became a constant friend and for the rest of my time at that school, I drifted by like a ghost, feeling present and yet not. Conversations were had and immediately forgotten, teachers would find me staring blankly down at the work in front of me, or staring absently out of windows, and I found my own little corner of the school to eat, read, and play on my phone, all alone. I even can't say how many classes I missed. My parents apparently found it hard to believe the reports they received from my teachers which told their precious daughter wasn't performing at even an average educational level. But I was way too deeply dug within my metaphorical glass-coffin to care anymore – about Hannah, about school, about my life, my concerned teachers and parents, or even the heavy stone around my neck and where I had gotten it.

In time, with the help of psychotherapists, psychiatrists and medication, I started to feel real again, and I started to care again. And I still cared about Hannah, I knew I did, and memory of what I had said to her roiled in my head. I missed her, and I wanted to talk to her, to see after all those months if there were absolutely anything that could be salvaged. Of course, by that time it was too late.

/

By the end of that semester following my accident, Westport had sent a letter to my parents advising they find 'alternative educational solution' for me – a polite way of saying that I had been expelled, and attached was a note from the school counsellor. By the time the letter had arrived, Mum had already begun planning our move to Isla Huesos, and Dad was already on her case about it. And apparently, I wasn't the only thing my mum loved that she felt Dad had allowed to die by neglect.

"Isla Huesos, Deb? Really?"

I had heard this particular argument as I was hiding around the corner just beyond the front door where they stood, snarling quietly at one another. Dad and I had just returned from one of the last of our court-mandated lunches; none of which I minded.

"You think _that's _what the counsellor meant when she said a place 'better suited to her needs'?"

"It can't be any worse for her than Connecticut has turned out to be," Mum snapped.

"You can't peg the teacher on me, Deb," Dad huffed, defensively. "That one was all you. I heard you pushing her to take him up on his tutoring offer—"

"Just drop it," Mum snapped, now defensive as well. "I'm taking her home. End of story."

"Of course _she's _the reason you want to go back there. It couldn't possibly be because you want to go _save the birds," _Dad rolled his eyes.

"Someone has to," she said tightly.

"It's not going to make any difference, Deb," Dad assured her. "It's going to be a drop in the bucket. You know, now I think about it it's more likely you're running back because you heard that _he's _available again."

Now Mum just sounded mad. "I'd think you'd have better things to do right now than look up the marital status of my ex-boyfriends."

"I like to keep track of their mating habits," Dad said. "The same way you track your roseate spoonbills."

"The spoonbills," Mum snapped, "aren't mating anymore. Most of them are dying. Thanks to _you."_

Dad is the CEO of one of the world's largest suppliers of products and services to the oil, gas and military industry. It was near impossible for one to have not at least heard of it, especially in the last few years, what with all the media attention it had gathered. His company was at least partly to blame for the decimation of the local economies of hundreds of communities on or around the Gulf, including Isla Huesos', following the careless use of dispersant resulting in oil in the ocean, tar on the beaches, and a great number of sea life being deemed inedible. It was all around a shit situation for everyone involved.

"Oh, for godssake, Deborah. You think I did _that _on purpose, too?"

"It wouldn't be the first time a tragedy could have been avoided if you'd been paying attention."

Dad recoiled as if she had slapped him – it would have been kinder if she had.

There were more arguments had about the subject, but in the end Mum won him over by signing me up for a nationally recognised programme at Isla Huesos High called 'New Pathways', which was designed to give assistance to 'troubled' students like Alex and myself. Alex, the boy with a parolee dad and a MIA mother; and me, the girl who had died and come back crazy.

"It comes highly recommended," Mum had told Dad and I. "You'll still go to regular mainstream classes, like everyone else. You'll just have some extra supervision and support from some very well trained social workers. Trust me, honey, I wouldn't enrol you into something like this if I didn't think they could help."

I wasn't exactly enthused about Mum's idea, but the only other option was to go with Dad's idea, which was to send me to a boarding school for rich kids with social issues, in _Switzerland_. So, New Pathways it is.


	7. Chapter 6

My social worker-cum-counsellor was a woman named Jade, who had been more than friendly and accommodating during our orientation meetings last week. Despite knowing my circumstances and my attitude and the allegations which led to my expulsion, she had been nothing but nice to me, smiling and offering me strips of red liquorice from the jar on her desk. My necklace – my neck felt bare at the thought of it and its more than noticeable absence – had never changed its colour in Jade's presence; it remained a steady, soothing grey. But when Alex pulled into the carpark and we approached Isla Huesos High, I did not feel soothed.

The school was enormous, with four immense wings connected by a central paved courtyard – the Quad, Jade said it was called – which was filled with shaded picnic tables for students to sit, chat and eat during breaks. Apparently, seniors such as I were allowed to leave campus for lunch, but the State of Connecticut – along with my neurologist – had deemed me unfit to procure a driver's licence, and I had no car besides. Alex took me to the administration building where they gave me a pink slip with my class schedule printed across it, and then Alex showed me the room for my first class. This, like all my other classes, was located in D-Wing. Conveniently, D-Wing was also where the New Pathways offices were.

I had a pretty good feeling that the proximity of my classes and the offices was intentional, but it wasn't surprising nor did it bother me. I'd overheard Mum say a long while back that the only way that Isla Huesos High School would accept me after hearing the allegations made by Westport Academy against me, was to enrol me via New Pathways. So, of course they were keeping a close eye on me. And considering what everyone thought I had done to that teacher; I didn't blame them. I thanked Alex, and he wished me luck and told me to meet him in the Quad for lunch. Then he left for his class, and I was on my own. I took a bracing breath and stepped into the classroom.

It all went rather well, considering. People sent curious looks my way, and I heard them talking about me, but I tried to pay it no mind. I was the new kid, and they were curious. I just kept my head down and tried to settle in. When lunchtime came, I couldn't find Alex anywhere. He hadn't told me where to meet him and I hadn't asked. We were both idiots. Overwhelmed by the crowds around me, too awkward to ask to sit at a table, and too embarrassed to go sit by myself in a corner, I instead scuttled to the vending machines and bought a few rather unhealthy options which I then smuggled into the library. There, at a small desk with a plush chair, at the back beyond the tall and heavy shelves, I set myself up, putting in my earbuds and then ate my lunch. This was normal, this was comfortable.

It was there that Jade found me.

"Pierce," she greeted with a friendly smile, pulling up a similar plush chair from nearby and settling down at the desk across from me. "I've been looking for you."

"I'm here," I said, stupidly, and immediately flushed with embarrassment as I quickly pulled out my earbuds. "How's it going?"

Pushing a strand of black hair from her face, the black leather cords wrapped stylishly around her wrists slipped up her arm, where a tattoo read _Check Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself _in fancy cursive script. Jade was friendly and intuitive and sometimes I felt like she knew more about me than I knew about myself. Though her style seemed to be dark and edgy, her light and laid-back personality appeared quite a contrast.

"Good," Jade nodded, the movement shifting the black cord wound about her neck. "How's it going with you? Didn't make it to the Quad for lunch, I see."

"Not today," I told her, averting my eyes. "Maybe tomorrow."

"Hey," she said, eyes gentle and understanding, "Listen, I get it. It's cool."

I shifted in my seat, feeling both awkward and relieved at her easy acceptance of my asocial decision. That relief vanished in the next moment when she went on,

"But if you want to talk, maybe about the thing that happened with that teacher at your old school, or about your friend who died… anything. You know where to find me."

I smiled tightly. _Anything_, huh? I wondered what she would say if I told her about him. About our fight in the cemetery. About his part to play in 'the thing that happened with that teacher' and by extension, my 'friend who died'. Would she tell me what all the other professionals had? That he wasn't real? I might not have had my necklace anymore – my neck still felt bare, I don't think I'd ever get used to not having its comforting weight and warmth about my neck – but I knew for absolute certain that he was, and that what happened between him and I in the time following my death, did definitely happen. I may have died and come back, but I wasn't crazy. But I didn't mention any of this to Jade, and I never would.

"Thanks," I said. "Will do."

Jade gave a frown-smile. "Hey," she said, reaching out to touch my hand. "I mean it. None of what happened at your old school was your fault, you know."

I was still, and my eyes were fixed steadily on hers.

_Was she kidding? _

She watched me, clearly waiting for an appropriate reply, which I gave.

"Right," I said, consciously lifting the corners of my mouth into what I hoped looked like a smile. "I know."

She had no idea.

But this appeased her, and she nodded. "Good. Just remember that. In the meantime, try to enjoy yourself, okay? I know you've been through a lot but give yourself a break – it's just high school."

I pasted that effortful smile onto my face. "Sure," I said. "I'll try."

Jade's grin lit up her face. "Okay, well," she said, rising from her plushy seat, "great talk. Five minutes til the bell rings. Be sure to stop by to check in with me after school. I got some more of that liquorice you like – the red kind. Oh, and there's an assembly in the auditorium at two, don't miss it – it's gonna be _epic._" Then she gave a wink, turned and left. _Epic. _Where the staff of New Pathways had essentially banned the terms 'crazy' or 'normal' as they were deemed to be not therapeutically beneficial, they had an apparent fondness for the word 'epic' – Jade in particular.

I watched her go, put my earbuds in and finished my lunch, trying not to think too hard about _that teacher_ and my friend.

/

The din from the auditorium was deafening. The enormous room held two-thousand seats and, to me at least, there seemed to be double that number of students inside, with more pouring in through the wide doors. Many were still busy greeting each other after the long summer holiday – screaming and hugging and fist-bumping friends from other classes and grades.

I shuffled through the crowd, wincing at the thunderous noise echoing throughout the auditorium and clutching my bag tight to my shoulder. With my head ducked, I was following the legs of the people in front of me as we moved forward, and that was why I didn't see the boy with the white polo and khaki shorts. I stumbled into his side, and we both gave small sounds of surprise and turned to one another. I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment and with a face filled with apology, I looked up to see a tall, blue-eyed and tanned man with a healthy tan and blond highlights in his sandy-brown hair. He smiled at my stammered apology, revealing perfectly straight white teeth. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach and my blush spread down my neck and beneath my shirt. He was unthreatening; unintimidating, and groundedly gorgeous.

He stepped aside and gestured toward the doors. "After you," he said politely, with an amused grin.

I cleared my throat and tried to relax my white-knuckled grip on my bag, adjusting it on my shoulder. "Thank you," I said, and in that same moment a sudden gust of ocean breeze blew around us and my pink class schedule which I had shoved in an unzipped pocket of my bag, flew loose and fluttered away.

"Oh, here," he said, chasing after it before I could react. "I'll get it."

"It's okay—" I said, following him a few steps, but he had already picked it up from the ground. I thanked him as he handed it back - not before he gave it a quick look-over -, and he nodded.

"Pierce Oliviera," he said, as I tucked the pink slip in my back pocket. "D-Wing, huh?" he asked with a laugh.

I'm sure he could see the defensive confusion on my face, because he laughed again.

"It's cool, don't worry about it," he said. "New Pathways, right?"

Now I was very confused, how the hell had he known? Could he smell the crazy on me?

"Everyone in D-Wing is in New Pathways," he explained. "Not that that's a bad thing," he quickly added. "New Pathways is great. I've had a lot of friends go through New Pathways." I blinked at him as he gave an awkward laugh. "It's a great programme. Really great—"

"I have anger issues," I told him. He was making me nervous – he was too attractive and his shirt was too white. I didn't understand people who could wear white without immediately spilling something all down their front; they were a different, less clumsy kind of people. I was the kind of people who struggled with panic attacks, severe anxiety and near uncontrollable emotional outbursts. If this guy knew about New Pathways, and now knew my name, then he might as well hear why I'm in the programme from me, rather than through the gossip-chain later on.

"Hey," he shrugged with a dazzling smile, making me more nervous. "It's not the worst thing in the world. I mean, you're still Pierce Oliviera. That's good, right?"

_You're still Pierce Oliviera?_ What the hell was that supposed to mean?

"Yeah," I said, returning his smile as Jade had told me to do when I wasn't sure how to react to something. "I guess." Then I pointed to the doors to the auditorium – we were some of the last to enter and I kind of wanted this interaction to end. "Are you—?"

"Oh, sure, yeah." The guy, who hadn't introduced himself, moved past me and opened the door for me. "After you."

"Thanks," I said, and stepped into the noisy auditorium. Without glancing back, I walked away and found a clear area and hovered there for a few moments, feeling lost. What was I supposed to do from here? Was I supposed to sit in a particular area? Did everyone have their own seats? Heart pumping unsteadily in my chest, I casually went through one of my breathing exercises to keep myself calm – I felt out-of-place and increasingly overwhelmed. The last thing I wanted was to suffer a panic attack on the first day of school, and in the middle of the auditorium in front of literally the entire student body. _I'm okay. This is fine. Where is Alex?_

After a minute or two of looking around, both searching for my cousin and generally people-watching, I spotted that same guy in the white polo standing with his group of friends down by the stage stairs, and he saw me and smiled again. A few of his buddies smiled too, and one of the girls – with out-of-fashion white tipped nails, and flat-ironed hair (an impressive achievement in southern Florida) – gave a friendly wave. The other girl, on the other hand, impressed me with the talent that was typing on her phone while also sending a foul glare in my direction. That was some good multitasking, I thought dryly, and looked away. I pushed away the thought of going to stand with them, despite it being a clear opportunity to make new friends. Coward that I am.

I couldn't see Alex anywhere, but I did see a girl that I recognised from my economics class. She had a giant aurora of dark curly hair, shot through with heavy streaks of bright purple, which was hard to forget. I'd also seen her in the New Pathways office last week, having her own orientation session with her counsellor. I remembered that my necklace – my bare neck itched – had turned purple when I'd thought of her, though I didn't know what that had meant. In any case, she was sitting alone at the end of an aisle, surrounded by empty seats. I acted on my thoughts before I could hesitate and approached her.

"Are these seats taken?" I asked. She didn't reply, and it took a moment to realise that she wasn't snubbing me – she was just wearing earbuds, hidden by her hair.

She looked up from her phone when I gave her shoulder a gentle tap. "Oh, sorry!" she said, moving her legs for me to get by.

"Thanks," I said, collapsing into the seat next to hers.

The girl turned back to her phone as I sat down, and I took the chance to check out her lip and eyebrow piercings. Very spunky. I tried not to glance at her phone screen, and it wasn't anything interesting when I did anyway.

I sat, feeling awkward and not knowing what to do with my hands. Almost everyone else I saw in the auditorium who wasn't engaged in active conversation with their friends, was looking down at their phone. Mine was locked up in the office of Tim, the head of the New Pathways programme. The administrators had taken it when I had picked up my class schedule and told me to fetch it from him at the end of the day. It was to encourage me to 'interact more', rather than hide online. Which was fair enough, I supposed, but it was still irritating.

So, instead I sat and looked at her jewellery – on her fingers was a spattering of black and silver rings and shining gems of various sizes and colours. And the sight of them brought back a memory I'd rather not have thought about, especially not while I was sat there next to a girl I had half an intention of trying to befriend. But the shining gems took me back to that day, to that shop, to _him _and what he had done. I winced and with no time to grab the sedatives in my pocket, I did my best to let it play out.


End file.
